


elsewhere

by raccooninvestigator



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Boston Flowers, Gen, Grief, Second person POV, Vignette, missing person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 00:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30097215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccooninvestigator/pseuds/raccooninvestigator
Summary: You are Lulu Winkler-Gamero, and a month ago, your husband went missing.
Kudos: 2





	elsewhere

You only answer the door through force of habit. You hardly recognize the woman at the door, but you suspect she hardly recognizes you either. You aren't quite the person you were a month ago.

A month ago, you had just moved them not your new place. You laughed at the antics of your friends helping you move, at the dog traipsing under your heels. You opened a new business - for the first time in your life, doing a job for fun. After all, things were poised for greatness where your husband worked.

You are Lulu Winkler-Gamero, wife of Boston Flowers catcher Nic Winkler, and a month ago, he went missing.

Glabe Moon stands in front of you, stone-faced. "You weren't answering your phone," she says by way of greeting, before slipping past you and making directly for the kitchen. You're grateful she has decided to wear a human shape today, and not something more dangerous to the hardwood. You follow her because there's no chance of denying the shapeshifter when she knows what she wants.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, Glabe has already won Elvis over with a slice of pastrami. He whines greedily at her feet as she rummages through the cupboards, piling bread and condiments on the countertops. You sit down, like a guest in your own home, and say nothing as she begins frying the cold cuts.

It is a bit of an invasion of your personal space. But your phone has beeped steadily for the past week, photos of babies and sauerkraut and messages whose words don't have to say that she misses him too. It should be Abby sending those, you think for a bitter moment, but the moment passes as the toaster pings.

"I thought the rye had gone bad," you finally say when Glabe sets the plate in front of you.

"Thomas baked some," she replies. It's a little misshapen, but the thin layer of spicy mustard makes it taste like home. Where Nic is. Home. When will he be here? The pastrami falls apart in your mouth, and you wonder when you last ate something made by human(-ish) hands.

Glabe Moon sits in what should be Nic's seat, just like she sits in the standings where Nic should be. Commentators drop lines about motherhood has made her a stronger player, but you know there's something else there. You want the same thing. For your best friend to come home to something he can be proud of.

Thirty years is a long time to love someone.

Thirty days is a long time to miss them.

"I always thought it would be me," Glabe says. "I'm old. I had nothing to stay for. They already took my family." The black hole feels so long ago now

"He used to leave for games and tell me he couldn't die. That he was unkillable on account of drinking too much "loving my wife" juice." You both laugh at that, though the light doesn't reach her eyes. Glabe rests her hand on yours. It is rougher than you expected, callused.

"Even after all those times he got his blood drained, he was fine," you mumble. "Joking about how Sandy was going to treat his blood better than he did. So why isn't he? Haven't you seen the—"

And that's what breaks you. Knowing he is still alive, elsewhere. Dreaming of another life, a life with you, but not you. He is not in the world you built together, but something different. Maybe it's the world he thinks you want, but you would do anything to hold him tight and remind him that this is the world you want. He is the world you want. He is enough, in his exuberance and abundance. He is enough when he's sallow and hurting. He is everything and without him you feel nothing, crying at your dining table while alien arms hold you close and join the chorus of your tears.

You both sit there for a while. Exhausted. Vulnerable. Elvis curls up at your feet. Your phone buzzes. The account has updated. You slide the notification away. Nic Winkler is elsewhere. But until then, you'll be here, waiting, to welcome him home, again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't sleep. too worried about nic. wrote this fic. nic came back. i'm magic?


End file.
